


path absent of reason

by vanitaslaughing



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 06:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20169772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanitaslaughing/pseuds/vanitaslaughing
Summary: Ah, he found no joy in watching a sin eater being born.





	path absent of reason

**Author's Note:**

> i mean i could blame pent-up anger from my social battery short-circuiting, or the fact i cant sleep in heat, or detest the beach, or the neighbours constantly drinking and STILL playing loud music at 1am even right now but i got nothin'
> 
> mind the tags.

_Hands reach up, dig into the heavy cloth. The hood has fallen down, revealing those deep red eyes he once loved, the eyes he still loves, but right now all he feels through the cloak of darkness that has been his burden since the world’s will was made manifest is seething rage. Traitor, a voice that he knows now belongs to Zodiark whispers, traitor! And he knows he’s screaming these words over the hellish noise of another battle, another one in this chain of endless battles—but this time something feels off. He’s scared senseless and suddenly understands the panic that took over Amaurot all those countless years ago._

_He continues shaking the other. Continues. Hopes his head pops right off his shoulders. But those red eyes still look hollowed out—and finally he stops._

_None of the people who follow this infernal goddess born of their defiance against the planet’s will look the slightest bit unenthusiastic about this. Through his lord’s agonised screeching, he mouths a question. A question not even meant for him._

“_Was all of this worth it!?”_

_But Hythlodaeus smiles, a smile that does not reach his deep-red eyes. Then he shakes his head._

“_Worth it?” The smile drops, and for the first time he sees an agony running so deep that his heart nearly breaks. “I chose neither side for fear of losing one. Instead I lost both through inaction. I lost you both, Hades—you and Persephone.”_

_His own name sends a jolt through his body—in the last hundred or so battles, Hythlodaeus has not called him by it. Persephone has not, either. Persephone only addresses him by his title, rigid and still and full of malice. Hythlodaeus calls them both by their titles, and suddenly Hades understands why. He tried to be neutral. He tried to be neutral because he loved them both._

_He cannot say a word. Not because he does not want to—the moment he reaches out to touch Hythlodaeus’ face as he used to, if only to whisper that he understood now and that he still cannot reconcile with Persephone after their actions, something breaks._

_The entire world comes to a standstill as agony blooms somewhere in the darkness that holds his soul in a gentle embrace. He looks at Hythlodaeus. Hythlodaeus has his head turned to the skies—and the skies shatter. Hythlodaeus collapses with a laugh—or a scream—and Hades’ vision goes blindingly white._

* * *

Of course. That answered his many questions in one fell swoop. Allagan descent, though he wasn’t entirely sure where the Miqo’te blood came from. He hadn’t exactly kept track of the lesser royals with no intention or rights to the throne; though the red hair implies Salina and that Ilsabardian fool she got attached to because he treated her like a person concocted a way to either transfer royal status or conceived a bastard together. The Exarch’s hand for the aetheric however came from neither of his ancestors, and nothing in his bloodline implied a full family of strong mages.

Who else… who else could have an obsession with what remained of Persephone yet tolerated or even enjoyed the company of the man once known as Hades?

Hythlodaeus.

And as Zodiark once tried to command him to, he lodged a bullet in Hythlodaeus—the Crystal Exarch’s back. Old and fragile for a mortal so far removed from the tower that he siphoned the living energy he needed from, he collapsed with not even a cry. He merely fell over with a vague choke.

It was enough to send the already faltering Warrior of Light into a panicked frenzy. Emet-Selch had heard them call a name that meant nothing to him before, their hand stretched out and the agonised expression on their face telling of a deep-seated grief that they never got to vent. Of course, that expression and the name had died the very moment they heard the shot ring through the air.

He had half expected a remnant of Persephone to put up more of a fight, but as he puts the gun away he hears horrid screeching interrupted by equally horrid retching. The skies burned with blinding light once more and foretold the upcoming Rejoining. A Calamity that the Exarch had so valiantly tried to prevent. But as Emet-Selch stopped next to the man, he saw those red eyes swimming in tears—but the Exarch did not look at him. The horrid retching continued, something cracked awfully.

Once upon a time he had looked at Persephone with admiration. Even their infinitely less impressive reflections carried the same air as Persephone did before the end days of Amaurot where they refused their title and instead wandered the streets to attempt finding a solution that did not involve giving the planet a will. They did not find one but they saved quite a few lives in the streets that very day that the skies spewed fire.

After that their relationship suffered under Lord Zodiark—of all things, the very god that had saved them all. Persephone had looked upon him with scorn; Hythlodaeus with indifference. It had been Hythlodaeus who had stopped countless fights from becoming more than shouting matches. Hythlodaeus who stood between them until the very end, Hythlodaeus who loved them despite knowing that this would end in tragedy. It was that memory that had made him mess up even creating a shade and discouraged him from trying to replicate a Persephone from the final days of Amaurot—if one was self-aware then surely the other would rage against its creator. And now Hythlodaeus bled profusely by his feet, sundered as he was with the wide red eyes of an Allagan royal Miqo’te. The red eyes were the worst. They were nearly the correct flare of bright red that seemed to make every sunset and every fire go pale in comparison.

The Warrior of Light let out a screech that was not human. That sound seemed to break the spell over the Crown of the Immaculate and Emet-Selch stood back up slowly. Hells, even the Crystal Exarch choked back a sob as he slowly fought himself up into a sitting position.

“And once more, humanity fails to deliver,” he sighed vaguely. That immediately drew the ire of Lahabrea’s former vessel; the man was intelligent but several levels too hot-headed when it came to dealing with people who wronged him. The temperament of a failed assassin. Emet-Selch turned his head vaguely to look at the man—Thancred, was it? Either way, Thancred had slung an arm around the quaking shoulders of Hydaelyn’s little plaything’s reincarnation and pulled her close to him. The astrologian boy stood next to the girl as well, his eyes closed and a pained expression on his face. The blind mage had her lips drawn back in a snarl but he could sense the fear radiating off her.

Emet-Selch shrugged after taking a look at the twins; the boy with watery eyes and terror on his face holding the girl with blank fury on her face.

“And here I near foolishly assumed I would be able to hold a conversation with your vaunted hero ‘ere they turned. Alas.” Another horrid scream accompanied with a disgusting crack that sounded a suspicious lot like a spine breaking made all of the mortals wince. “Were I you, I would devise a plan of action fast. You can put them out of their misery, at the cost of one of you lot turning. Or all of you turning. Or you can flee and let them destroy all that you so _painstakingly _built, dear Exarch. But either way, the dice have fallen and lie where they fell. ‘Tis your loss and my victory.”

Another howl—the boy twin and Lahabrea’s former vessel both moved. The boy tried tugging his sister along who was howling angrily by this point, the man all but shoved the girl who had covered her ears and was sobbing openly to get away from the soon-to-be-reborn Lightwarden to end all Lightwardens. Emet-Selch watched the Scions idly, wondering why they chose to flee.

He stepped aside, once more reinforcing the fact that he was a watcher and not an actor.

The astrologian helped the Exarch stand. There was still blood oozing through his crystalline fingers, staining the clear blue ugly red. At least the man had the courtesy to fix the wound, though the blood would dry and ruin the frankly nice-looking Allagan robes that the Exarch wore with an ease that belied the fact that the empire was long gone. Emet-Selch meanwhile turned his head slightly to look at why the screeching had stopped.

Ah, he found no joy in watching a sin eater being born. Found no joy in watching pristine white wings unfold. A crack, a disgusting squelching sound, a howl—and the new Lightwarden that would usher in the Rejoining was born. Where Vauthry had been Innocence who led the world to the blissful brink, the Warrior of Light would extinguish all in their path for they were Despair incarnate.

And much like any newly born Lightwarden, it lashed out.

Emet-Selch rolled his eyes—the one who brought in the rear was the blind scholar. But he heard another voice scream in agony as they were hit, and finally he looked back to the retreating Scions.

The Exarch had taken the blow meant for the woman. The woman threw up a shield, the astrologian attempted to nail the Lightwarden down with… a surprising amount of success.

Mercifully enough the patchwork soul of Hythlodaeus did not flare up in sharp agony—but he noticed it. He noticed what immediately took root as the Exarch was dragged backwards by the twins, while the girl sobbed, while the Lightwarden _screamed._

The Scions didn’t understand. But Emet-Selch did, even as Lahabrea’s plaything made them seemingly vanish—their aether was still clearly there, but the Lightwarden was thrashing about under the heavy bindings of magic. A trail of blood that stopped at one point, implying that the boy and the astrologian had patched the Exarch up. Emet-Selch stopped there as the Lightwarden broke its bindings, as it settled down.

The Scions were taking a ticking time bomb back to Kholusia. Back to the Crystarium.

And Emet-Selch could only think of Hythlodaeus staring at the skies while somewhere in the distance Persephone likely laughed in triumph.

* * *

Why he had moved to protect Y’shtola despite the fact he still saw stars, he didn’t know. He didn’t know if he had told them that every Lightwarden had the Touch, he didn’t have the strength left in his body as he crumpled to the ground with a cry rawer than he thought his voice still capable of to tell them to leave him there, to put him out of his misery, to do _anything_ but get him somewhere safe.

For years he had been the Exarch; in the world after the Calamity he had not often been called anything but Keeper or Sleeper. Only Biggs and the inner circle of the Ironworks called him by his name, a certain fondness on their features eventually. Fondness that he reciprocated.

Hearing his given name out of the Warrior of Light’s mouth however sent a spark through his body that he didn’t know he still had. Part of him was ready to die and part of him had still rebelled against it, and in that very moment the selfish and rebellious part had nearly won. Had he not hesitated, had he only not hesitated to give them parting words, had he only, had he only….

It became his mad mantra as his body likely convulsed—he didn’t know where he even was, all he knew was that a violent convulsion would tell Lady Alisaie all that she needed to know after she spent so much time at the Inn in Amh Araeng. It was agonising. It _hurt._ The Crystal Tower pushed back against it but no matter what, his aether was irreversibly corrupted. He would turn. He would _turn._ He so very, very desperately wanted to tell them to drop him, to slit his throat before he hurt anyone.

But he remained out for the count, flashes of bright light dancing in front of his closed eyes and all of them likely accompanied by a horrible groan or jerky sudden movement.

He had failed.

He had _failed._

And with that, he opened his eyes, sat up with a startled gasp. His vision was swimming, everything looked and felt too bright, and he barely even heard the surprised voices calling for him. The Exarch turned his head to look at whoever approached him—a Mystel lad who worked at Spagyrics, a Hume whose name escaped him, _Lyna—_and nearly immediately bent over the side of the bed to pathetically retch. The aether in this place was _vile._ _Impure. Disgusting._

No, no. Not here. His own. His own balance was completely off-kilter as he desperately tried to haul himself back up with his crystal arm after nearly sliding off the bed and finding that no strength remained in it. Whoever eventually got him back into bed he didn’t know; likely Lyna. She had never been scared of touching him even when extended time away from the tower left him brittle and prone to collapsing until the very day she said that he was not to leave it for extended periods of time. Twelve bless that girl even if the First did not have the Twelve.

Eventually the Scions arrived by the time he was awake and somewhat aware of his surroundings. Living aether, he realised with a dry laugh, made him nauseous and the Scions all had that unfortunately living aether about them.

Much to everyone’s surprise and horror he got up, and the part of him that was still G’raha Tia who closed the doors to the Crystal Tower was disgusted by it. Here he was, old, fragile, _actively dying—_and no one seemed to be willing to address it. Who even know id the rest of the Crystarium knew. With a wry smile he said that he might be worse for the wear but he was not dead and bade them follow him to the Ocular. In the end he nearly stumbled and fell.

A broken back and neck that killed him was more preferable to the burning embarrassment when Thancred brusquely interrupted his fall before it even began and made certain to not let go until they reached the Ocular. But he would be dead soon. If not put out of his misery by someone then he would turn, turn and tear them apart. Or they would let him transform and then tear him to pieces. He didn’t deserve better.

And before any of them had a chance to say something, he started talking. Said _everything,_ left not a part of his story after being awoken unsaid. Choked when he reached the point where he learned how Krile had died. His voice broke by the time he talked about leaving the Ironworks and the Source behind, was openly weeping when the story came to Lyna and how her parents died such a horrible, horrible death just barely out of their little daughter’s vision. Hells, his legs gave in when his hoarse voice admitted that the Scions were not supposed to be here, and that they would hopefully be returned soon.

It made Y’shtola frown. She was definitely one of the sharper people around, and she narrowed her eyes. She must have seen it the moment he was struck. How the corruption took root. How it spread through his entire being. He wondered if the light had already taken over his fire and that would explain why he did not have the strength to get back up even as the Scions gathered around him.

“Returned,” she said, her arms crossed and her head turned towards a ghastly-pale Ryne.

He coughed, more a choke than anything else. Gods, the Crystal Tower was horrible. It was still trying to push back against the light despite the fact that it was powered by it. Despite the fact that it could not siphon the light out of his soul without killing him.

“Yes,” he eventually squeezed out, barely more than a pathetic lump of too-old flesh and crystal on the floor. He was aware of how pathetic he must have looked—shoulders dropping, ears hanging as low as they went when one didn’t have the strength to keep them up, the crystal arm limp and useless at his side and the other hand desperately and weakly clutching his robes to his chest as he drew in rattling breaths. “I am afraid we are out of options. ‘Tis… my fault. I would not dare ask for anything from you, thus I leave my fate in your hands—either you kill me now, kill me after I turn, or drag me out of the Crystarium as I turn in the event that I have not left beforehand.”

Ryne made a sound that might have been a startled gasp despite the fact it sounded like a disgusted sigh. Y’shtola turned her head from one side to the other with a frown. Urianger’s hands curled into fists, a motion that Alisaie mirrored. Alphinaud’s already pale face went even paler. Thancred almost protectively put his hands on Ryne’s shoulder, but his expression was rigid and unreadable.

“But once my soul tears itself apart in the transformation yours will be released from this… prison I locked you in with my shaking hands. Perhaps with some knowing of the coming chaos the Eighth will not hit as hard—but with the summoner dead, the summoned are released. I had… I had….”

“You had intended to die there atop Mt Gulg, would have released us that way and saved the Warrior of Light and the Source both,” Alisaie finished with her voice betraying how upset she was. “But thanks to Emet-Selch, th… that happened.”

He shook his head slightly, the very motion setting his insides ablaze with the intense desire to throw up what little he had managed to ingest earlier. Indeed, horrid coughing shook him and nearly had him pass out, but once that subsided he looked up at them.

Gods, it was so bright in here. The blue was washed out and vaguely disconcerting—it took him a moment to realise that it was his vision going slowly but steadily white until naught remained but that infernal light he felt eating through his aether as the balance vanished with every passing moment. Dying to Black Rose sounded like a merciful death in comparison, and he nearly started laughing right there.

“No. The Ascian’s involvement certainly did not… help… but in the end, the only person you can blame is me.”

The fool who closed the doors to the tower all those years ago. The fool who volunteered for a suicide mission. The fool turning into a sin eater now.

The Crystal Exarch knew whose fault it was. Through his direct action, through his inaction—it was all his fault. The worst thing about it was that it felt familiar. As if he had lived through something like that once in a past life. Past life?

Gods, he was going insane now that he was finally dying.

Another cough shook his body, a cough that turned into godawful retching. The Scions all backed away as he finally, finally managed to get whatever was bothering him out of his throat. His sight was swimming too much to realise what he was looking at once he managed to spit it into his crystal hand. The crystal hand that felt so brittle and unresponsive. Through the light haze that clouded his vision it took him a few heartbeats to realise what he was looking at.

White blood. He’d spat white blood all over his crystal hand that felt as if it was about to pop off.

“Don’t tell Lyna,” he mouthed as he struggled to stand up. None of the Scions said a thing, different stages of grief all reflected in their expressions.

Y’shtola and Alisaie were furious as they watched him stagger past them. Alphinaud looked plain pathetic, Urianger was most definitely choking back tears of his own. Thancred remained neutral and apathetic despite the storm that boiled somewhere in his eyes. And Ryne, Ryne merely clung to the man and watched the Exarch push past with wide eyes.

Just as he reached the door, a voice that had not spoken up this entire time finally echoed through the Ocular.

“What dost thou intend to do, G’raha Tia?”

He leaned his forehead against the door. Gods, he hated how his breath rattled. Like a dying old man—except, he noted with a wry, sarcastic and very unhappy smile, he _was_ a dying old man.

“Do what… they all do. When no one puts them… out of their misery. Answer the stronger’s… call. Make certain the people… of Kholusia and Eulmore… are welcomed to the Crystarium. Tell Lyna… she inherits the title. As much good as that… does.”

He couldn’t bear facing that girl. That girl had always looked at him with admiration and plain love. He loved her as well, as one would likely love their own children or grandchildren. G’raha Tia most definitely never had children of his own, no matter whether he desired them or not. The Crystal Exarch did not have any either, but he had had Lyna. She was the closest thing to family he had, seeing as he was directly responsible for killing one member of NOAH and the rest would surely follow in the Calamity he failed to prevent. Their blood was on his hands.

The entire First’s blood was on his hands. He didn’t even know how many he would be tearing apart himself.

The Scions said nothing as he left—though Ryne sobbed and buried her face in Thancred’s coat.

* * *

He felt hollow by the time he reached the Talos. The Amaro had thrown him off near that Dwarven settlement with the name that escaped him—Komra, Pomra, Homra, Zomra, perhaps even merely Omra—and he had landed with a sickening crunch that would have concerned anyone watching it. Instead he had idly watched the Amaro flutter away with a panicked screech, back to the Crystarium. When he struggled back to his feet, he saw what had crunched.

He left his entire lower arm there. It had just fallen off without much fanfare other than the cracking, and he realised that the corruption had reached the crystal. It started breaking where it had replaced skin, his upper arm slowly but steadily breaking off in small pieces. A chunk of his neck broke off. The crystal creeping across his face was rough and jagged, cracked enough to resemble broken glass. He drew a finger across it. Didn’t feel it as it cut his skin open. Didn’t see that he bled bright white instead of deep red. Hells, his red eyes had likely lost their unreal glow by now, going more and more white until naught but these horrible bleeding white sockets remained. He’d seen countless people turn. In sleepless nights he had wondered what would happen to the crystal parts of his body. Now he had his answers.

The entire shoulder came off by the time he approached the Crown of the Immaculate.

Hells, he very desperately wanted to reach the likely resting Lightwarden; Lightwardens were inactive for a while after taking over a new host. A week for one. Five for five. He had apparently wasted two away unconscious with sudden bouts of sharp waking, mumbling nonsense and falling back unconscious as his body violently trashed about. It had been Lyna who had made certain the people did not fall into panic, though most merely lost hope while the Exarch was out. Gods, he wished he could get them all to the Source unharmed. They did not deserve that sort of death.

He collapsed before he reached the Crown of the Immaculate, the stairs proving too much for his wildly famished body. He rolled over to his back, more crystal breaking off—either off his face, off his chest. But from the way breathing suddenly got harder, it likely had been part of his neck.

Well, this place was as good as any.

He closed his eyes as he lay there, not certain whether he had been staring at the everlastingly light skies or if his vision had merely gone away entirely.

Maybe in his last moments he would remember why he felt as if he had doomed all creation. Maybe he would remember who in the seven hells Hades and Persephone were and why he remembered their names now that he lay here dying.

* * *

He didn’t know why he approached that pathetic lump of crystal and flesh. Though, as he approached the Exarch, he realised that most of the crystal had broken off by now. The man, despite his for a mortal youthful face, looked like the hundreds of years he was now that the end was nigh. Emet-Selch had half a mind to show mercy to the man who nearly uprooted his plans—but he didn’t. White blood rolled down his face like a tear and he instead had half a mind to kick this cheap imitation of Hythlodaeus awake.

He nudged him in the end, and the Exarch opened his eyes.

They had been Allagan red once—nothing of that remained now. Hells, they were nearly gone. He sincerely doubted that the man saw a damned thing, but for a creature soon of the light his darkness would easily be something either reviling or something that felt wrong enough to wake him from his death throes. Even the red hair—laughable, really—had gone unhealthy white by now.

How curious that Hythlodaeus would be reborn as a Miqo’te on the Source. After the fall of Zodiark all souls that had been split by Hydaelyn sought a new body that was created for them and most of them stuck with what they were given in the end. Or whatever they chose. There were a few that wildly jumped between them, some shards chose something else than what remained on the Source, but in the end there were only a few that wildly differed every time Hydaelyn was done cleansing their souls and throwing them back out into the shard they belonged. None of them remembered what their originals were.

Which made the first word the Exarch muttered even worse.

“Hades.” A rattle escaped the man’s lungs, and it took Emet-Selch a moment to realise that the Exarch was _laughing._ “I see. I see now.”

Hydaelyn had made them all forget. They did not remember their past lives, they barely even lived to begin with. He bent down next to the man drawing in wheezing, horribly wet breaths and almost longed to see a familiar red again. But no. Hydaelyn had torn that red into tiny, tiny pieces. Hythlodaeus was dead and gone. All that remained here was the Exarch; a man with man secrets that he would be taking into the void with him as he ceased existing and would be reborn as a sin eater. His soul, rejoined seven times, would be released, would return to the infernal goddess slumbering at the shards’ heart instead of Lord Zodiark—and when yet another mewling Miqo’te child with red eyes and red hair was born, it would not remember what it once was. It would not remember the Crystal Exarch. It would most definitely not remember Hythlodaeus.

The Exarch’s blank eyes seemed to tear into him. The light in Kholusia was sickening and the fact that this violently twisting mass of aether would soon settle into the same cold stillness as the Lightwarden up ahead had already did not make it better. But there was no expression on the man’s face, nothing.

Hythlodaeus had always worn his heart on his sleeve, mask or no. Standard white had not hid the bright red of his eyes, the red of his hair. Since he repeatedly said that he had no intention of ever trying to gain a title for his efforts, Hythlodaeus remained the one with a white mask and as little nonsense as possible attached even when in private. Though he had always been the first to shed the mask.

The Miqo’te’s ears feebly twitched, perhaps more a small seize of muscles that were quickly atrophying as the body corrupted further.

A wheeze. A hack.

Then a laugh.

“Did you know… after the eighth—an Ascian hunter got you.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. Of course he had hoped that the Exarch would be able to choke up his secrets for the good of Lord Zodiark, but Emet-Selch had better things to do than hunt down a dying man. If the Exarch was even the slightest bit as stubborn as Hythlodaeus had been then it would have been a futile torture of a creature that would never give up the secrets it held close to its heart. And against his Lord’s vehement complaints somewhere in the back of his head, Emet-Selch had to admit that even sundered the qualities of the people stayed the same. Hythlodaeus ran after history like an excited child and was caught up trying to help smooth it over. Persephone remained defiant to the end in every incarnation, though the level of defiance oft faltered between the incarnations.

“Did one, now,” he whispered and brushed a strand of white-tipped red hair out of the Miqo’te’s slack face.

“The Source’s last piece of Auracite… and the Ascian Emet-Selch face-to-face with Gaius Baelsar.”

Of course Gaius lived. Some mortals did not know when to _quit,_ but hearing that he himself underestimated the man to the very end almost seemed hilarious. Was the Exarch desperate to tell his story?

No. Not very likely.

This was Hythlodaeus cracking through the surface, bubbling to the top as some former Amaurotines did whenever their sundered counterparts came close to death. This was a warning, since even the Exarch saw no sense in protecting a world that would go down the same path. As long as the people after the Eighth Rejoining woke the man in the Crystal Tower they would create hundreds of paths where a Crystal Exarch called forth the Warrior of Light to make them kill Lightwardens. Hundreds of Exarchs would try and fail, would cut their own declarations of naught short of white-hot love off and attempt to whisk the light away into the rift where it could return to Hydaelyn to empower Her. Who knew how many got to that point. How many failed and died, how many were crushed by the weight of their destiny, how man turned into sin eaters at any point? Countless.

Countless times Hythlodaeus would suffer and struggle, would meld his flesh with crystal, would depart for the unknown—all to see the Warrior of Light succeed and this waste of aetheric energy of a world saved. And Emet-Selch knew precisely why. This was his way of choosing, hundreds upon thousands of years too late.

“Ha… des.”

Gods, mortals are so disgustingly quiet when the end was near. Amaurotines did not die from age. Not from sickness. Only a violent death could end one, and even then their soul could be given form once it was freed from the body. They would remember their past lives eventually, they would always have the same name. Who even knew what Hythlodaeus had been called immediately after Hydaelyn tore him to pieces.

“_You don’t care about that,”_ Zodiark’s voice in the back of his mind whispered. _“He betrayed you. And now he made a choice—a choice that wasn’t you.”_

“Was… all of this… worth it?”

If his heart still beat, it would have stopped there for a moment. The same question he had asked so many years ago that he had long since lost count. Elidibus kept track. Emet-Selch mostly slept.

He reached out once more, half expecting the skies to split once more. But nothing stopped him this time and this body’s fingers connected with Hythlodaeus’ face. His skin was brittle. White blood covered most of it as he coughed.

Emet-Selch jumped back to his feet with a jolt. He wasn’t sure whether he was angry or not, the emotion he felt something he hadn’t in so long. He knew that this was but another mortal holding someone he once considered close to him hostage. Another Hythlodaeus would be born on the Source eventually, eight times rejoined instead of this brittle sevenfold whose eyes closed quietly with the name of a young woman from this worthless shard on his lips rather than Persephone or Hades.

A sin eater to follow the Lightwarden around, not counting those that would rise from the Empty once Persephone got to moving. No, not Persephone. Despair. All that would rise would be a bottomless well of despair, brilliant white wings telling of the doom that closed its maw around this place.

Hythlodaeus was long dead. The Exarch was a cheap copy at best, a cheap copy that breathed its last with a sad smile that looked so familiar that Emet-Selch wanted to scream. Then naught but blinding light.

He still did not particularly enjoy a sin eater hatching and struggling free before it went off to search for aether to feast upon. He had already deliberately missed Persephone turning. Hythlodaeus at the very least deserved the same thing.

He left.

* * *

“_How much longer will we have to live through the last days?”_

“_Not much longer.”_

“… _That is. That is a different answer than usual.”_

“_Go and gnaw on that, then. Not much longer, Hythlodaeus. Not much longer.”_

_He swears he sees a flash of horrified understanding in the shade’s eyes. Eyes that he certainly hadn’t given it, but Amaurot beneath the waves would due to vanish with the rest of this shard. Not much longer. Not much longer._

_Elidibus would be thrilled to see the First gone, but Emet-Selch almost dramatically sighs as he sits down in the middle of the street. It had been unusual back then—especially a grown man like him—but the shades now barely pay any mind to him. He closes his eyes with a weary sigh as the shade that was aware of what it was ponders on what had just been said._

“… _No. No, you cannot mean—“_

“_Persephone ought to be done with killing each and every soul in this place before long. Perhaps I should bring in the end of days myself as a celebration—rejoice! Those whose souls shattered shall return to their base. Including you.”_

_Hythlodaeus’ shade shakes its head, furiously._

“_Persephone was right—you have changed, irreversibly so.”_

_Things that Hythlodaeus would have never said. The shade sounds like the Crystal Exarch now, defiant and almost childish in a sense. The real Hythlodaeus had never made a choice. Had never decided that one was right and the other wasn’t._

_Emet-Selch blankly stares at the shade and wishes that the real Hythlodaeus had made a choice. It would have made all of this so much easier._

_Not much longer now._

**Author's Note:**

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